I Remember
by CycloneT
Summary: Was it the boy who made me fall in love with the man, or the man who made me fall in love with the boy? [DoggettReyes]


Title: I Remember

Category: DRR Monica POV

Rating: PG

Summary: Was it the boy who made me fall in love with the man, or the man who made me fall in love with the boy?

Notes: Post Release fic – kind of. It's set a year later. I know it's been done before, but it just aired here last week so I haven't had my turn yet. :) It's not my usual style, and I had to stop myself from making it so incredibly sappy that it almost made me sick. I'm not sure if I succeeded or not, so please, tell me what you think. 

I remember standing on this beach, exactly one year ago today, grieving for a little boy I'd never met. I remember watching as his parents said their final goodbye, as they severed that last sorrowful link between a life that was, and a life that would never be. I remember, as I watched and grieved with them, the question I thought I'd banished long ago reappearing and renewing it's assault on my mind. The question that had kept me awake more nights than I cared to admit, mocking my inability to decipher its mystery. I remember again puzzling over that question, as I had so many times before, and watching Luke's ashes fly with the wind. I remember John emerging from the overhang, tears in his eyes but release in his face. I remember how he clung to me, and I to him, as we stood there for what seemed ages. But above all, I remember the question. That question being this; was it the boy who made me fall in love with the man, or the man who made me fall in love with the boy? After all the years that had passed since I found his still, lifeless body, I still didn't know the answer. Where did it start? With the father, or the son? 

The son I had promised I'd find was indeed found, three days after he was first discovered missing. In those three days of agonising expectancy and heart-breaking disappointments I lost my ability to detach myself from the emotions of the case, and became, quite simply, lost. How can I even begin to describe the sickness that wells in the pit of your stomach when you investigate the disappearance of a child? I can't, and so I won't even try. But however hard it was for me, it was a thousand, a million times worse for his parents. To be one of those who love a missing child – it is literally hell on earth for these people. I watched as their hope died a little each day, as their nerves broke and their tempers soured, and I wept for the utter despair that finally consumed them. Although they both grieved, it was the father who touched my heart. It was the father, with his grief-stricken eyes and crushed spirit that wove his way into my blood. The father who loved his boy with everything he was, everything he would ever be, only to find in the end that it wasn't enough. He was still dead. I watched as he knelt in that field, looking down at the empty shell that once housed a lively little boy, and broke. And I accepted in that terrible moment, that this boy, a stranger until three days ago, had claimed my heart. 

I was one of those who loved him. 

That was when the question first arose. I shoved it away with all the righteousness of someone who knows exactly how inappropriate such thoughts were in the presence of a lifeless child. But when that child's father turned to me, haunted and alone and with eyes that couldn't quite believe the truth of the sight they were seeing, I knew I couldn't ignore it any more. I loved the son, but I also loved the father. And it was wrong.

He was married, but even then I could tell that his marriage would not weather the loss of a much-loved child. I took no joy in their separation, felt no relief when they divorced. I loved the man still, but held no illusions as to his feelings for me. To him, I would always be the woman who stood over his dead son as he mourned in that field. I think that was a part of why he kept in touch. I was a link to Luke – a painful one, but even a painful memory is better than no memory at all. 

I remember standing on this beach, exactly one year ago today, wondering if it was still wrong. Wondering if the passage of time would ever ease my guilt over loving them both when I should have just done my job and walked away. For whatever reason, I was bound to the both of them on that first day. I was incapable of walking away, of moving on and filing the whole miserable ordeal as a learning experience on how *not* to get involved. And the turning of the seasons has done nothing to lessen that. I remember standing on this beach, exactly one year ago today, and being hit by a revelation. Just as John found his release, I found mine. I realised that it didn't matter who I loved first. What mattered was that I loved. 

Today, as we lay a posy of flowers on the rocky shore, we remember a little boy who's light was snuffed out before it even had a chance to grow. We stand here in silence, hand in hand, watching the waves roll in and remember. I sigh and allow my head to fall onto John's shoulder, and he drops a soft kiss on my forehead. He smiles down at me and reaches with his other hand to lay a protective caress on the gentle swell of my stomach. I cover his hand with mine, feeling the beginnings of a new life stirring underneath. He kisses my forehead again and pulls me into a tight embrace, as we both remember the little boy who will never know his new brother or sister. 

End


End file.
